


Puppy Love

by fyredancer



Category: Tokio Hotel
Genre: Fluff, Holiday, M/M, Mostly Gen, Twincest, gustav/georg if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 22:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fyredancer/pseuds/fyredancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill drew Tom's name out of the hat for their first ever Tokio Hotel Secret Santa exchange, and he's having a heck of a time figuring the perfect present for his twin. Little does he know he's not the only one that slip of paper left scrambling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puppy Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely for furzry, whose original (and sole) wish on th_wishlist was for someone to write a fic just for her. I didn't forget. :) And, I just had to use your prompt. Thanks to volare for looking it over, and to omgwtfskittles for the fantastic banner. ♥

"This is ridiculous, I can't believe it; I'm not going to have anything bought let alone wrapped by the date proper," Bill ranted into his phone. "He's being absolutely unreasonable, mum."

Simone made soothing noises as Bill paced back and forth on the narrow strip of carpet between long glass cases. "Well, have you tried outright asking him, Billy?"

Bill set his mouth in a sulky frown as he came to a stop beside a display of dazzling diamond-cut watch faces and tapped his nails over the surface, pinky to index. Did his mother really think he was that flighty? "Yes, of course, but I have to be cagey, otherwise he'll realize _I_ got him for Secret Santa, and that's no good. The whole point of Secret Santa..."

"...is that it's supposed to be a secret; yes, I know, Bill, you've only said about twenty times," Simone finished for him, offering up a sigh. "Well? What did he say, then?"

"He just says he already has everything he wants," Bill said in disgust, censoring only slightly. Their mother didn't really need to hear how Tom had said that he already had Bill, so he had everything he wanted and asking for anything more was pushing it, but he could buy his own Ferrari, thanks.

Bill had given serious thought to the Ferrari, but he'd given up when confronted with the logistics of getting it in place for the Secret Santa exchange.

"Aww..." Simone began.

"And before you say that's sweet, stop and think how bloody difficult he's being," Bill urged, palming bangs out of his eyes and picturing his mother all starry-eyed over Tom's alleged sweetness. "He's being too lazy to give it a proper thinking over."

"You know how your brother is," Simone said with a chuckle.

"Ridiculously close-mouthed?" Bill said, snorting. 

"You're easy," Simone said. "Buy you a bit of jewelry, tailor you some outrageous new clothes that no one else has, and you're happy as Scotty with a belly scratch. Tom, though. He keeps his cards a bit closer to the chest."

"Whatever, just...I'll figure something out." Bill waved a hand and contemplated defeat for a moment. The instant he'd drawn the slip of paper out of Tom's cap with his brother's name on it, Bill was pretty sure he'd seen a suspicious gleam in Gustav's eye. It had hinted that Bill was being laughed at, if only in Gustav's own head. He would have accused Gustav of rigging the draw, but Bill had actually been excited for all of five seconds over the prospect of actually getting his twin a present for the first time in he couldn't remember how long. Possibly the last gift that Tom had received with Bill's name on it had been penned in Simone's own hand, before the twins had declared they never needed to get one another gifts, as they each had everything their hearts desired.

"All right," Simone said, and made a sympathetic noise. "Sorry I couldn't be more helpful, my treasure."

"Mom," Bill whined, half embarrassed, grateful no one on his end of the line could hear.

"What; you'll always be my treasure," Simone teased. "No matter how old you get, or how far you move away. Hamburg, Bill, really!"

"It's near the studio," Bill said, tone apologetic, but he didn't feel bad for moving out shortly after his and Tom's eighteenth birthday. They'd needed their space, they were adults, and after literally years of sneaking around in their parents' home, to have the utter privacy to be with each other the way they needed was invaluable to both of them.

"Don't forget, we're having dinner Christmas Eve this year; Grandma is hosting an early get-together for the whole family at hers..."

"Got it, mum. Tom's had it marked on the planner for ages."

"Yes, I can trust your brother for some things," Simone said shrewdly. "Though not grandchildren I'm sure..."

Bill laughed gaily. "Tom, a father? Come on, mum. You know he loves kids, but he'd never settle down with a girl long enough to manage more than the once. Or the twice. Or the follow-up in the morning."

"That's way more than your mum needs to know about your brother's sex life!" Simone said hastily.

Bill grinned. They said their farewells and he ended the call, slipping his phone into his shoulder bag. He had a surefire way of ending all parental inquiries into Tom's love life – rather than affecting disgust, as he had in several interviews, with their mum he simply supplied too much "information" and she dropped the subject fast.

Folding his arms tightly over his black peacoat, Bill cast a look up and down the darkened street that had been rendered into a skyscape with twinkling lights strung here and there over awnings and wrapped around light poles. He'd gotten a few shops held open for him after hours and so far he'd looked at men's watches, sunglasses, couldn't quite stop himself from looking at jewelry for himself, and had even desperately picked over collections of cologne. All of it was too impersonal, and none of it impressed Bill as very 'Tom.' That was the other thing that had caused them both to swear off gifts for one another, years ago – what they wanted, they tended to buy at once.

He checked over his shoulder for the bodyguard that had been shadowing him from several paces all evening. The group of stalker fans that had been camped outside his and Tom's place for weeks had been getting more aggressive.

It had terrified Bill, at first – not simply the fact that they were always there, watching, but that they were the type that believed he and Tom were in an intimate relationship. The first time the subject of twincest had come up years ago, Bill had been convinced it was as though there was a hole in his head, that certain perceptive people could see right inside of him and read into the love he had for his brother, recognizing it as more than fraternal, more than that for which the simple bonds of blood could ever account.

Tom had been the one to calm Bill, to get him back on course then, and although Bill still struggled with it, they had determined together that they'd never let anyone else prevent their happiness; not management, not their parents, not a nation, and certainly not a group of sick fangirls that were trying to shadow their every move. Still, it bothered them both – there was always someone, watching. Taking pictures or videos, posting them on the internet. The police had been no help.

So they had black-out curtains for all of the rooms, and double and triple bolts, and Tom had found someone who could program the lights in all of the rooms in the house to flip on and off at certain times of the night. Useful for Bill, who'd never slept a night alone in his bedroom's solitary bed during their entire residence.

Bill lifted a hand up to tease his white-tipped fingernails through the roots above his new dreadlock extensions and sighed with irritation. He was running out of time, he hadn't found anything at the shops he'd visited, his mum couldn't give him any ideas beyond letting him know what she'd gotten, so that he could avoid duplicating a potentially brilliant idea, and the gift exchange was tomorrow. They were meeting at the studio one last time to swap their Secret Santa gifts and take Georg's self-esteem down a few more notches before they split for the holidays.

"One more store," he decided, spotting the Dior window front. He wondered, wistfully, if there would ever be an event in their lives for which he'd be able to get Tom into a suit.

Forty-five minutes later, Bill had a new outfit but nothing for Tom, and his grace period for visiting the shops after hours had expired.

"Damn it," he grumbled, heading back for his car. With his armfuls of packages – none of them for Tom, oddly enough – the car that had been his delight earlier that year abruptly looked far too small.

He knew what he really wanted to get for Tom, but they'd discussed it shortly after bringing Scotty with them into their new place and they'd both agreed they should wait until their lives were a little more stable before getting more dogs. He couldn't help but think that would be the best kind of surprise, though.

There was the other problem with gifting things to Tom – Bill knew his twin had a woefully dim view regarding surprises, even if they came from Bill himself. Sometimes Tom really was the grandpa he claimed to be in interviews; at least, when it came to things like hygiene, schedules, surprises, unwanted change...

A new digital camera was only a stop away from home, and it would be a timely thing to get right before their trip to the Maldives this year, but while Tom might commend him for the thoughtfulness, it simply wasn't extravagant enough. Bill slid behind the wheel of his car and tapped his nails thoughtfully over the steering column as he stared through the front windscreen.

"Fuck caution," he decided at last. He was going with his instincts.

It was beyond late that evening, so there was nothing to do but take himself home and stow his myriad packages before a certain unnamed twin could arrive home and tease him about how many things had made their way into Bill's closet rather than beneath the tree. Tom was late, unusual for him but as it gave Bill more time to squirrel things away, he barely noticed. 

"Got your Secret Santa squared away?" Bill asked casually, nudging Tom in passing as he moved through their spacious kitchen to explore any prospects beyond the standard of leftovers, pizza, or pasta.

"Oh, I think so," Tom replied, avoiding his eyes.

"What did you get?" Bill wondered, cracking the fridge and making a face. Something in there was producing an odor, and he was certain he hadn't been responsible for it. He shut the fridge hastily.

"Delivery again tonight?" Tom said, phone already in hand.

Bill made a disconsolate moue. "Pizza isn't very Christmasey," he replied.

Tom chuckled. "It would be difficult to get tofurkey and potatoes on short notice," he observed.

"Ech, fine, order pizza," Bill said, waving a hand. He isn't planning on confessing to his brother that he was planning on stealing a bite or two of their mum's Christmas goose, as sometimes they were vegetarian in theory, instead of in practice. "So, how's your Secret Santa coming along?"

Tom turned and gave him a poker face as he finished placing their usual. "You know, the whole point of Secret Santa..."

"...is that it's secret, yes, _I know_ ," Bill filled in, scuffing at the cabinet behind him out of sheer frustration. "If you can't tell your own twin, though..."

"Wasn't aware you were one of Santa's elves," Tom told him, moving close enough to flick at Bill's nose, making him squeal and back up against the far counter.

"I'm not--" Bill began to object, certain Tom was going for either a short joke or something to do with their ears, oddly shaped and sometimes pointy in appearance.

Tom swooped in for a kiss, instead, sucking Bill's bottom lip into his mouth and putting his hands to both of Bill's hips, thumbs rubbing just so over the strip of skin exposed by low-riding track pants. Bill's eyes fluttered shut and he reached out for Tom, one hand going up to settle at the join of his neck and shoulder, the other scrabbling over Tom's shirt, searching for a resting place.

Before the kiss could deepen or intensify, Tom pulled away, darting his tongue over Bill's bottom lip, catching the upper with a quick lick, then drawing back.

"What..." Bill huffed, not used to being denied as he reached out to grasp for Tom's shirt, but his brother remained frustratingly elusive.

"Mistletoe," Tom explained, pointing upward, and backed away with a laugh before he went for Scotty's leash. "I'll be back by the time dinner gets here – they said thirty minutes."

"Tom!" Bill exclaimed, clenching his hands into fists. He managed, barely, to avoid stamping his foot in childish frustration.

As he tilted his head to do a mistletoe check of their ceiling, coming up bare on that front as the kitchen was empty of decoration, Bill realized he'd been entirely diverted from his inquiry.

"Fine," he growled under his breath. He'd find out tomorrow, in any case. He hated being thwarted, though. It was really Tom's loss, he tried to console himself. He'd planned on fishing for how well Tom would receive the prospect of receiving a puppy for Christmas. He dug around for his phone and prepared to lay his plans. 

The next morning, Bill was able to roust himself from bed at an ungodly hour – ten a.m. - and disentangle himself from sleepy warm delicious-smelling Tom in order to make it to the shelter. It required a massive infusion of caffeine and holiday cheer. He slipped his Christmas medley CD into his car stereo, the one that Tom had threatened to take out to the back yard and burn in the fire pit if Bill played it indoors one more time. He cranked it up, car-danced to pop reinterpretations of American classics at stoplights, and fantasized about the freshly-baked stollen that their mother would have waiting on the kitchen counter when they arrived.

The flaw in Bill's brilliant idea was revealed the moment he set foot inside the building. Puppies barked pathetically from rows of cages, full-grown dogs nosed at the chain-link fence of dog runs with giant, irresistible eyes, and the sound of barks and yips tore at Bill's heart. He wanted to take them all home, began to count up and realized that they wouldn't fit into his house, let alone his car.

Hesitantly, he asked for introductions to puppies. With one hand clutched tight to his chest Bill walked beside the attendant as he trailed his other hand along the chain links like an apology, wincing as several of the dogs gave him tentative licks.

The moment he saw the huge dark head over the little spotted body, Bill was lost.

He fell to his knees beside the metal cage, barely heeding the sting that heralded the scrape of concrete, and worked his fingers into the mesh that separated him from the curled-up form lying dolefully on clean newsprint. A soft, unintelligible noise squeaked past his throat and Bill angled his hand into the press of a wet nose against his fingers. The puppy lifted dark, grave eyes to his, sweet but weary, as though he'd had so many people paraded past his cage that he'd gotten used to being passed over for something smaller, cuter.

"Would you like to play with him?" the attendant asked him, and Bill could only nod helplessly, though he was already virtually certain how this visit would end.

"This one is Tom's," he whispered, low enough that the attendant couldn't hear, but the puppy pricked up its dark floppy ears.

Bill smiled at last as the cage was unlocked, and he gathered the puppy to his breast, unmindful of the proliferation of coarse dark hairs that would shortly litter his peacoat. He could admit at least to himself that there were considerations more important than fashion.

"This one's going to grow up to be quite a big boy," the attendant cautioned him.

"It's all right," Bill told her, favoring her with a blinding smile. "We've got the space for him to run and play."

After several moments alone in a private room, the puppy perked up from its cage-induced dolor. Bill was laughing as it skidded around his ankles, shaking a knotted rope until its ears flapped everywhere, small fierce growls trickling from between its lips. "Oh, you're a good boy, aren't you?" Bill crooned, grasping the drool-soaked end of the rope without a single wince as he shook it out for the puppy. With a squeaky-toy growl, the puppy pounced, bowling itself rump over ears. Bill's laughter pealed out unrestrained.

"He's a German shorthair," the attendant told him with a fond smile.

"He's perfect," Bill responded.

It took nearly an hour as Bill discovered even rock band singers had to fill out the forms required for puppy adoption. They sent him on his way with a kennel that Bill knew they wouldn't need – they'd never coop up their precious puppies, he and Tom were of one mind on that – and extra bowls, a leash, chew toys, and a bag of the kibble that had been the puppy's sole sustenance.

He had several texts from Tom by the time he was through, and he tapped out a quick response, _c u at studio_. He had one more stop to make and this was definitely the kind of gift that Bill wasn't going to be able to smuggle into their house and keep hidden from now until the unveiling.

With his bodyguard's help, Bill managed to get the puppy boxed into a hastily-wrapped crate, punched holes in the wrapping at regular intervals, and discovered that he was the first to arrive at their studio. No one had followed, save for the bodyguard at his back, and Bill walked over the pavement savoring the bite of cold air in his nose and the flat grey of the sky that promised snow or something like it, later that day.

"You're such a good boy," Bill praised the silent crate in his arms, and a soft snuffle was his only answer.

He nearly lit up a cigarette before reminding himself it wasn't good for developing puppy lungs, or something, and played around with his phone as he waited for bandmates and brother to join him. The studio was cold, nearly chill as outdoors, everyone having gone off for the winter holiday but for the four of them.

Gustav was first to arrive, punctual as usual, bearing a small DVD-sized package that made Bill sure that their drummer had gotten Georg in the exchange. Their friend was very much aware that whatever show or movie the twins wanted, the twins outright bought. Georg had a way of procrastinating unless he was held to a strict schedule.

"I'm not late," Gustav stated, brow creasing as he regarded the sprawl of Bill on their studio's couch. He checked his wrist anyhow.

"No," Bill said, waving a hand. "It took ages for me to find something for T—for my Secret Santa recipient. I finished up just now, and here I am." He crossed his ankles, satisfied with himself. Gustav probably expected him to arrive last, panicked expression in place and slap-dash wrapping job thrown onto his gift.

"So you are," Gustav said, and settled onto the wooden chair across from Bill, turning it around and hooking one arm over the back. "And now we wait."

Bill fiddled with an unlit cigarette and eyed his phone as it chirped with a pile-up of notifications. Tom, mum, mum, Tom, Andi...he tapped a reply text to that last, apologizing because they wouldn't be able to see their friend until the new year. He and Gustav made small talk about their respective family plans for the break, the timely chill that portended snowfall, and Gustav politely ignored the small unsettled yip that emitted from the box at Bill's feet.

"Be careful on the roads," Bill cautioned his friend. "Tom and I will be enjoying the heat of the Maldives, but you know how icy the streets get this time of year."

"Yes, little mother," Gustav said, with a snort and a wave of his hand. "What do you think I'm going to do, spin out and crash? Don't answer that."

Bill grinned and didn't answer. He stuck the filter of his cigarette between his lips and let it wobble, pushing his mouth out in a pout.

"You can go ahead and light up," Gustav said. "I don't mind."

Bill raised a brow and nudged the gaily gift-wrapped crate with one foot.

"Oh," Gustav said, and made no further comment.

Tom came through the door with a frown on his face and a drape of garland around his neck. "Where've you been?" he demanded bluntly, looking round for an ashtray to stub out the cigarette smoldering in his fingers.

"I told you I'd meet you at the studio," Bill said, putting on an innocent look and stretching his legs out. He glanced briefly to the gift-wrapped crate beside him, sending imploring thought-waves to the puppy to caution him to remain silent.

Tom huffed. "Didn't think you _meant_ that," he began, and glanced to Gustav, biting down on his lip as though their bandmate hadn't been privy to his fair share of Kaulitz squabbles over the years. "It's only, I thought it would be better if we went to mum's in the same car."

"I suppose we can drop mine off at our place," Bill offered. "We'll have to pick up Scotty anyhow, won't we?"

"Yeah, you're right." Tom's shoulders relaxed and he sprawled out beside Bill, one foot kicking at the crate that had been left beside the couch. It emitted a squeaky growl.

"Watch it," Bill said sharply, hoping he'd spoken up quickly enough to cover the noise.

"What was that?" Tom said, frowning at the crate.

"Your imagination," Bill offered, picking at the garland over Tom's nearest shoulder. "Tomi, were you working the tree over again?"

"Well, if it didn't put up such a fight..." Tom began, grinning back at him.

Bill narrowed his eyes. "You were picking candy canes off the high branches," he accused.

"I'd never," Tom said, his eyes innocently wide.

Bill leaned over to smell his twin's breath, then remembered he'd been smoking before coming inside – to cover up the scent of peppermint, no doubt. He wrinkled his nose and Tom grinned unrepentantly.

"Can't prove it," Tom said, and Bill arched his brow. If Gustav weren't here, he'd prove it on the lingering fumes that would cling to Tom's lips and inner cheeks, but that route was off-limits. For now, Tom had won.

The front door blew open, bringing with it the scent of rain-heavy clouds and cold as Georg struggled through, stamping his feet on the mat and shaking his hair back over his shoulders. "It's going to snow," he warned, shivering his way to the lounge area and carrying a package that looked as though it had been wrapped in tinfoil. "Let's get on with this; there's only so long my mum will hold off decorating the tree!"

Gustav spoke up dryly, "You're afraid all the lebkuchen will be gone by the time you get there."

"Of course!" Georg said, unashamed to admit his weakness for sweets.

"Right," Tom said, rubbing his hands together briskly. "We've all got a drive ahead of us, so I agree with Georg, let's do it."

Bill scrunched his face up; there went his hopes of putting on Christmas music and reveling in the festive nature of the exchange. "What, like a business transaction?" he voiced sadly.

Tom groaned. "I have to see their faces almost every day out of the year. I'm ready to get on with my break, thanks."

"Like you're such a treat to live with," Georg scoffed. He seated himself on the arm of the couch beside Bill, holding up his gift to the general perusal of the room, which had been swathed in reflective silver wrapping and not foil as Bill had originally thought. "So? How does this work?"

"Bill got here before me," Gustav said, "so he screwed things up. I was going to put mine under the tree, then tell everyone to leave theirs under the tree as well and when we filed back into the room, we could each come back in, retrieve our gifts from the tree, and then we'd guess who got ours."

"You ruined everything, Bill," Tom told him, poking him in the shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah," Bill said, unconcerned. He kicked Tom's ankle, and Tom loomed over him with teeth bared, snagging the garland from around his shoulders and wrapping it around Bill's neck as though to throttle him with it.

"We could still do that, I guess," Georg said, shoving back at Bill's shoulder as Bill bumped into him, squealing as Tom wrestled him halfway across the couch.

A short, excited bark emerged from the crate.

Tom pulled off Bill to stare around the lounge area of the studio, looking wild.

"It's nothing!" Bill said hastily, hooking a foot under Tom's knee and sending him sprawling with an oof.

"I'll show you nothing!" Tom vowed.

"Forget it!" Gustav spoke up crisply, sounding irritated. "Just...here, Georg." He thrust out the DVD-shaped gift.

"Oh, thanks," Georg responded, caught off guard. He passed over the silver-wrapped present. "Here, this one's yours."

Tom broke off their scuffle, straightening as he looked back and forth between drummer and bassist. "Wait, what?"

"That means..." Bill said, widening his eyes at Tom.

"You tricked us," Tom accused at once, disentangling himself from Bill and getting up from the couch.

"I did nothing of the sort," Gustav said calmly. "Unless you think I picked a slip out of your hat and shoved it into your hand?"

Tom sniffed, then moved for the inner door of the studio.

"Where are you going?" Bill called, forlorn. "Your gift is back here."

"Getting yours," Tom called back, stomping for the door and returning with a giant box plastered over with newsprint. The closer he got, the more Bill's curiosity inflamed him, but he stayed where he was, riveted to the couch. Soft little whimpering noises reached his ears and Bill glanced down to the wrapped crate beside him, confused – the German Shorthair puppy hadn't made a single distressed noise so far. When Tom set the box down at his feet, Bill peered into the open top and gaped.

Two tiny dackel puppies were snuggled up together within, one with curly black hair, the other with short, coarse black hair. Both were sporting red bows that had been sloppily affixed to their heads and looked ready to fall off at a sneeze. Their noses butted up against one another's tummies and as Bill gazed raptly into the box, one of them produced an immense yawn that seemed too much for its small jaws; it flopped over on its littermate, who promptly batted at a dangling strand of ribbon.

"Ohh," was the only sound that Bill could produce, in a broken voice.

"I...I know we talked about getting more puppies, and we agreed to wait, but..." Tom began bashfully, drumming the fingers of one hand against his thigh. Bill understood what completed that unsaid sentence; the two pups together, nestled together like twins, had been too much for Tom to resist.

They certainly crumbled Bill's will. He swooped into the box and scooped them into his hands, cuddling them against his breast. They were perfect, sleepy darlings, and he was never letting them go. Well, perhaps to pee on the lawn. And chew on Georg's sneakers.

"So I hope it's okay," Tom concluded, though his mouth was already softening into an indulgent smile as he caught the enthralled look on Bill's face.

"Tom," Bill said, with a commanding lift of his chin. "Open yours."

Tom blinked, and messed with the immense red bow that had been tied to the top of the crate. "What are these holes in the sides?" he wondered, but didn't wait for an answer as he tore open the paper and exposed the large white dog crate. His eyes sought Bill's, first. "Bill, what...?" He fell beside the crate on his knees as the snuffling noise started up again.

Bill grinned and hugged his puppies to his chest. "They're perfect, Tomi, thank you," he said, overcome. The curly-haired puppy roused and smeared a wet nose along his jaw, following up with a lick that turned into an enthusiastic nibble on his collarbone until he had to pry needle-sharp puppy teeth off his skin. "They are a bit pointy, though."

Tom was gazing into the cage with a lovestruck expression that Bill recognized, from the moment he'd looked in on the lonely German Shorthair. "Bill..."

"I know we talked about waiting," Bill said with a laugh, and shifted both puppies to the crook of one arm to wipe surreptitiously at one eye. "But...well, I already know the answer to that."

"Hello," Tom said to the puppy within, beginning to unclasp the crate. He held out his left hand and the German Shorthair puppy tumbled right out into his arms. "Oh, who's a good boy?" The puppy butted his head beneath Tom's chin and yipped happily.

"I thought we set a thirty-euro limit," Georg grumbled, unwrapping his own present at last and grinning. "Hey, thanks! Hadn't gotten around to getting Hellboy yet."

"I know," Gustav said, and peeled the silver paper from his own gift. He nodded with satisfaction. "Thanks, I've been looking for a good translation of Tales of Genji."

"Oh, I can't promise it's good," Georg said frankly, and Gustav shrugged.

"Bill, we'd better go," Tom said, rubbing his puppy's tummy as the spotted pointer sprawled out boneless on its back over the floor. "It'll take five times as long with this many pups." He grinned up as he said it, though.

"Five times as many, with four dogs?" Bill said doubtfully.

"Yes," Tom said, "because I'm taking you into account, as well."

Bill squawked and kicked at his brother's ankle, then hugged his puppies to his chest as one of them made a little whining sort of growl. "Okay, okay...oh, I can't wait to show mum!"

"Thanks for the gift exchange, Gustav," Gustav said, absolutely straight-faced.

"Hmm?" Bill said, looking over at their drummer. He grinned widely. "Oh...you said it, Gustav!"

Tom nodded, and winced as he reached down to detach his new puppy from its determined gnawing hold on his shoelaces. "Merry Christmas," he offered, and plucked up his puppy by the scruff, tucking it into his arms. "Great idea for the Secret Santa...we'll try to do it proper next year, yeah?"

They distributed their goodbyes and left. With his arms full of puppies and his grin wide enough to split his face, Bill was sure he was bursting full with Christmas cheer. "You're the best," Bill informed his twin, who replied smugly, "I know."

After a moment, head ducked low over the wriggling shorthair, Tom returned, "You're not so bad, yourself."

Bill grinned harder, and hid his flush against one of the puppies, rubbing his cheek against soft, curly hair.

~*~

"So?" Georg prompted, as the twins left with their squirming bundles of joy.

"As I expected," Gustav said with satisfaction. "They got each other the same gift. You owe me twenty euros."

"I thought you were joking about that," Georg groaned, digging around in his pocket.

"Oh, no," Gustav said very seriously. "There's two things I never joke about, and money is the other."

"So what's the first thing?" Georg wanted to know.

"Lebkuchen," Gustav replied. "So let's get to your place before it's all gone, yeah?"

"Definitely!" Georg said. They bumped shoulders on the way out, grinned at one another, and flicked the lights out as they went.

**Author's Note:**

> [Lebkuchen](http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/food/views/Lebkuchen-107446) is real and I want to give it a try. ;_; Give it a go if you're epicurious? I don't have a food processor, damn it.


End file.
